The Adhesive Ghost
by paradiso
Summary: Stella/Mac. She’d brought him back to life. Pulled the pieces of him together and plastered them with metaphysical super glue. Rated for language.


**The Adhesive Ghost**

Stella had never believed in ghost stories, nor had she ever taken interest in them until the towers fell.

Then she heard them so often, saw them wreak havoc in the lives of those dearest to her, and realized one day that ghosts did indeed exist.

And they were relentless.

--

"Stella," says a twitchy lab tech, "I-I got the results from Danny..."

"Thanks," Stella replies and decides not to chastise him for addressing her by her first name when the poor thing already appears to be scared to bits.

She opens the file and glares at the information without reading it. Thankfully, Sheldon Hawkes is right over her shoulder, reading it for her.

"Well, there goes our theory," he says smiling to himself when Stella jumps in surprise because that's just the reaction he'd been hoping for.

"Stop doing that," she snaps, but likes him too much to mean it, "You're right though, it wasn't the poison that killed her," she adds.

"No. But I have here..." he fumbles with his pocket, "Another theory."

She stares at the object he has produced like it's some kind of sick joke, "That's a glue stick, Hawkes," she taps her foot impatiently.

"It has wheat in it," Hawkes looks out the ground, deflated because she's too tired, too uptight for the comedic history of the common glue stick that he'd prepared before coming to see her.

"And Clarissa Strong was allergic to wheat. Very allergic."

"Exactly."

"But then that means that there was no murder at all. This was an accident."

"Sure looks that way."

There's a pause between them because of the dread question that hangs in the air. Stella thinks, _We followed procedure. We collected and examined the evidence, brought in suspects._ In the end, it all led to some stupid accident involving a trace amount of wheat inside of a glue stick. Somewhere at the back of her mind, Stella allows herself a moment to feel remorse for the sixteen-year-old girl lying limp on Sid's table. Then the moment is gone, lost forever in Stella's objectivity and iron-clad will to compartmentalize her feelings.

But none of this matters because Mac doesn't trust the "accident" scenario, and whoever breaks the news to him firsts gets to bear the full brunt of his stubborn skepticism. Whoever ends up being that unlucky.

And Stella can tell by the puppy-dog look that Sheldon's wearing, that it's going to be her.

--

She spots him, alone and perplexed in his office, from all the way at the end of the hallway, close to the elevators. He looks around to see if anyone is nearby (which is silly because it's only ever himself and her in the lab this late at night) and then stretches briefly. But it's like an eternity to Stella who's observing him, saddened because he always has to look over his shoulder before indulging in a human moment.

She's a few feet away from his door when he notices that she's there and that she's headed to him on some kind of mission.

"There was wheat in the glue," she says before she's even completely through the door.

He stares at her a moment, as if he hasn't heard her words, but then begins, "What are you saying?"

"You heard me," she doesn't want to confirm that sixteen-year-old Clarissa Strong died in some tragic accident.

"So you're telling me this was an accident," his gaze pierces her with all its professional anger and resentment.

"We carried out the tests, and Sid already confirmed that she died as a result of a swollen throat..." she's reaching for words.

"And your conclusion is?"

Her fingers go to the bridge of her nose, and she tries to ignore the fact that that's _his_ signature exasperated move, "Don't make me out to be the bad guy here, Mac. The evidence says that this was an accident."

"So go back. Examine the evidence again, there has to be something we're missing."

"Mac I-"

"Call in some of the older suspects."

"Mac, _listen,_" she's rarely irritated with him, because he's too suave and cool most of the time to get on her nerves, "I examined the evidence, okay? Sheldon too. Sid's autopsy was conclusive. Flack's gone with the suspects a number of times."

"We investigate murders here, Stella. Crimes, you know?"

"I _know_ that. But why put her family through all of this? Let's give them back the body of their daughter, so they can have a fucking funeral already, and move on with their lives the same way that_ we _need to move on with our jobs!"

He's stunned by her flow of speech, but says nothing in reply, just leans back in his chair and stares at her. In the meantime, she turns her back to him, fooling herself into believing that she can leave to handle the rest of the case without his instruction.

"Is everything alright?" he asks.

"Of course it is. What, you think I didn't wear gloves when I examined her clothes? You think I didn't handle the paperwork? You think that by now I don't know how to do my job?" she seethes, and is only angered further by the fact that he appears to be so calm in his chair.

"That isn't what I meant," he replies, and she has no way to be sure just what he meant of course, but she'd gone with the mostly likely possibility.

She had been wrong. But she doesn't say anything because if he's not asking how the case is going for her, then she doesn't know what he's asking.

"How've you been feeling?" he asks quietly, trying his best to sound nonchalant for reasons that he doesn't want to understand.

"Fine," she crosses her arms stiffly and feels uncomfortable enough to leave him, sitting alone in his chair.

She thinks that it has something to do with his office and its walls made from glass as if to fool a passerby into thinking that Mac Taylor was an open man and didn't notice the pressure that was constantly riding on him. But it didn't matter how clearly those walls shined or how pristine he looks dressed in all black against the night sky in the background. Stella knows that she can scrub her fingers to the bone trying to polish the walls of his office, and all in vain for he is this impenetrable, unconquerable man.

The ghosts she thought she would never believe in, peel themselves off the walls of his heart whenever she holds him close to her. He is solid and unmoving against her.

"It's okay," she whispers quietly again his shoulder since she's shorter now, without her heels, "I'm sorry."

His head snaps up, "Why?"

There's a million reasons why, and Stella can't help but feel morose and apologetic around Mac, no matter what day it is. But this one evening, six years since the day the towers fell, she's feeling especially angry at the world.

He wants to tell her that she has nothing to be sorry for, but it occurs to him that without all their remorse, they are nothing. She'll have no reason to be here with him, in his apartment, if he pushes her away and tells her that this has nothing to do with her and that it's entirely his cross to bear. She'd be angry at _him_ then, and he doesn't think he can survive that.

It's late when she finally leads him to the couch and they perform their yearly ritual. His head rests gently against her one knee when he finally is tired because – even on this great, sorrowful day – he still goes to work and does his job. Usually her hand flits across his face, dancing around his cheeks to let him know that if he cries, she'll be quick to wipe his tears. Tonight she stays away from the skin of his face, her nails trail his hairline instead, scratching his scalp lightly because she sees him do it himself sometimes and maybe that's the only thing that feels good right about now.

"Sorry about last night," he says tiredly, his voice raspy.

"It's okay. I asked Hawkes to do the report."

Mac does not answer, just closes his eyes and ignores what she just said, because if the report is being written, then it means that the investigation is closed. He doesn't have the heart to argue with her again.

He's still in the white dress shirt that he entered and left the lab wearing, so he stands out against the dark upholstery of the couch. She starts to notice the apartment more and more as he lies there in silence. There's no sign of vegetation anywhere. The furniture, the carpet, the blinds across the window, are all very standard, as if though the apartment was furnished by a robot.

His striped blue tie is folded on the coffee table that isn't marred even by a single water stain (coasters? No. He doesn't have company over too often, he's barely in the apartment himself). There's no coffee-table-book either, and Stella wonders why she has one at home, when she's so similar to Mac in that there's never anyone in her home either. Two hours go by, and Stella doesn't realize that here _she_ is, in Mac's apartment, where all these ghosts have claimed the corridors so that angels dare not tread.

He's so quiet, Stella almost thinks that he has fallen asleep, but she knows him better than that. He's just going to lie there for as long as she'll let him since he's afraid that getting up is the wrong thing to do and that she'll get offended. Stella knows because she is the same way.

Mac looks up at her, at his empty apartment, and sees the face that will haunt him forever.

Shadows and ghouls throw themselves all over the graveyard, though the sky is just beginning to darken in its timeless ritual.

More and more often does Stella find herself here, definitely more than Mac, who has never set foot within a two kilometer radius of _the_ grave. It's a simple stone, grey with flecks of navy (just like her eyes), with a small inscription at the top.

_Claire Taylor; Wife, Daughter and Friend._

_Gone, but not forgotten_.

And doesn't Stella know it.

For here she is, in the cemetery.

Saturday evening, her first day off in awhile, and she has come here and doesn't know why, but there's a burning sensation somewhere in her heart and she refuses to investigate it because she's afraid she'll find some kind of wildfire. What she might sieve out of the ashes and into the palm of her hand, so she can look at it under her microscope and figure out just what it is.

It's not long before she's cross legged in front of the grave stone, as though she's having a conversation with it. Some kind of intricate dialogue, filled with metaphors and allusions to a broken marine.

She touches the stone, feels her fingers become glued to it. She doesn't want to let go. She never asked to let go, and neither did Mac, that Tuesday six years ago. But the forces working to rip them apart and send them across the universe, as far away from each other as possible, are working harder than Mac does, and that's really saying something.

_You could have him back_, Stella speaks to the body of a beloved friend beneath the ground, _I wouldn't say a word, I wouldn't shed one tear._

And it's ironic because, Stella remembers the hurt. She remembers the sinking feeling in the pit of her stomach when Mac showed up on her doorstep with reddened lips and a ridiculously gorgeous grin on his face. She remembers seeing that _rock_ on Claire's finger from miles and miles away and then speeding off in the opposite direction to compose herself before having to face the newly-engaged couple. She remembers being at their wedding, smiling like an idiot, and purposely dodging the bouquet, because _that_ would have been just too much.

She remembers all the pain and the heartbreak and thinks that she would do it all over again a thousand times to hear Claire's boisterous laughter and see that smile on Mac's face again.

Stella knows that any day now, she could have Mac. She knows that all she has to do is reach out and touch him, look at him differently, lean in for a kiss – and he'll be hers. He mourns his wife, he mourns the whole world, and she thinks that that's why he'd give into her if she ever tried.

In fact, she _already_ has Mac. But he isn't the same loving, brilliant man he used to be.

Well.

He still has plenty of brilliance in him, but there's not much that's tender or loving about it anymore. He's some aged warrior now, filled with guilt and regret and venom.

With her back against the gravestone, her face towards a ghost, Stella bows her head and cries. She feels sticky with fear and heartache and doesn't know what to do about it, doesn't know who to call except for the very man she's crying for.

When she looks up again, there's a figure in the distance. She thinks it's another ghost, but she can't tell for sure, because the line between reality and horror has become so blurred in the steadily streaming moonlight.

In fact, she thinks she might be a ghost herself.

--

Six gravestones away, Mac doesn't recognize her at first, and Stella doesn't _want_ to recognize him because that means that something has happened.

"Stella?" he asks before she can move away from Claire's grave, "What are you doing here?"

But he sees her face and knows immediately why she's here. He's here for the same reason.

She's been talking to a ghost with Claire's likeliness for six years. Coming to the graveyard to keep her company, sitting at the gravestone for hours and hours at a time, asking for forgiveness and praying that nothing bad ever happens to Mac Taylor again.

"I miss her," Stella says quietly, "I miss her _so_ fucking much. She's everywhere Mac. There's no getting rid of her."

And suddenly it's like she's saying all of the things that he has always wanted to say, but has never had the strength to. When he's close enough and is crouching on the ground in front of her, she reaches out and touches his cheek. A spark runs down his spine, and he closes his eyes briefly, the sensation completely overriding his composure.

Stella isn't a ghost at all.

She's an exorcist.

--

Claire never goes away. She just rises up out of the walls of his office, his apartment and his heart, and is content to hover above his shoulder.

Mac learns how to smile again. To live and breathe and love again. Stella is his teacher (among other things).

"Stick with me Bonasera, and you'll have glass walls around you in no time," Mac jokes over dinner one night and when she kisses his cheek he, "You'll be the death of me."

Actually, she'd brought him back to life. Pulled the pieces of him together and plastered them with metaphysical super glue.

He smiles at her, holds her hand gently in his, and though he hasn't voiced his feelings yet, there's something in his touch that's saying it for him. For the first time, Stella doesn't have to be certain. She doesn't have to know, or examine or observe.

She is simply content to believe.

**fin.**

_August 2008._


End file.
